


Apotheosis

by Wolf_of_Lilacs



Series: Fairy Tales for Foes [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Childhood Friends, Immortality Averted, Implied Nonconsensual Somnophilia, M/M, Sleeping Beauty Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 12:38:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16219205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/Wolf_of_Lilacs
Summary: "I want to live forever," Tom proclaimed.Wishes have consequences, and all must pay.





	Apotheosis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedHorse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHorse/gifts).



> Inspired by a couple different conversations, though their finer details escape me.

"I want to live forever," Tom proclaimed. He and Harry sat peaceably side by side under a beech on the outskirts of school grounds, secluded from their fellow students.

 

"That's impossible, Tom," Harry replied, resigned as ever. "Magic is real, but not for people like us."

 

_People like them._ Orphaned. Abandoned. No one to rely upon but each other. It had always been this way, as far as either of them knew. (But they’d found each other in the depths of their deprivation, and that was something.)

 

"When we're done with this place, I will travel the world and find magic enough for immortality," Tom added, leaning back in the grass and enjoying the light breeze against his face.

 

Harry nodded, mirroring him with a contented sigh. "And since I'm your only friend, I suppose I'll be going with you."

 

Tom smiled, quietly satisfied. Yes, he would have it no other way. Harry, his darling, his loyal defender. His. No other was worthy of Tom’s highest esteem, no other ever would be.

 

They finished school with good marks and glowing recommendations from their professors, all except for Dumbledore—an old, idealistic fool, whom Tom had always found tedious.

 

And for the first few months, their travels were both as interesting and as mundane as they expected. Magic lured them ever onward, and they became comfortable enough with their journeying that no harm would dare come to them. Or so Tom liked to think. Harry, as ever, was more cautious. And, Tom supposed, he was indeed right to be so.

 

*

 

They came upon her suddenly in a far-flung wild. She stood in the middle of a toadstool ring, arranged by an unknown hand.

 

"What do you seek?" she asked, stepping from her circle, her rich blue skirts fluttering about her ankles, her expression solicitous.

 

"I wish for immortality," Tom said, unhesitating. Harry, beside him, wished for something in silence. There was a look in his eyes that Tom did not understand: resignation mixed with adoration mixed with—

 

"Very well," she said. "You shall find it in time.” She disappeared with a toss of her silvery hair and a whiff of rain-soaked wildflowers.

 

Tom felt no different.

 

"She said it would come in time," Harry reminded him, his voice strained with something akin to worry. Over what, he did not say.

 

"It's strange that she asked for no payment," Tom murmured.

 

"Perhaps immortality itself is payment enough."

 

Tom highly doubted this assertion, no matter how many times Harry had said similar things over the years. Their idealistic professor had said such things, too. Harry believed him. Tom ignored him on principle.

 

They continued their journeying as though nothing had changed. The world was open to them, and they gleaned all they could of its mysteries.

 

There were isolated ruins in isolated towns. There was often magic in such places, biding its time, ripened with age. In one of these abandoned places, they found an ancient, crumbling castle, obscured by spells that parted for them in eager welcome.

 

“What was this back in the day, do you think?” Harry wondered.

 

“Who’s to say.”

 

“Whoa, look there.” Tom followed Harry’s pointing finger to a garden at the back of the castle. It was occupied predominantly by a sprawling rose bush, gnarled with wisdom.

 

“Lovely, aren’t they?” Harry said.

 

Tom had to agree. The rose bush, planted many decades earlier, had grown wild. Its blossoms were scarlets and crimsons and carried magic in their very scent. As Tom and Harry approached it, the magic seemed to grasp Harry by the throat, and he stumbled, eyes thrown wide.

 

“I could pick one,” Harry mused, stretching out a hand—or was his hand stretched out for him, this idea blooming because of magic’s lure? And before Harry could grasp a rose, a thorn, long and terrible, seemed to reach out.

 

Tom caught a glimpse of silver from the corner of his eye, tried to call out a warning. But Harry was drawn forward irrevocably. A single drop of blood blossomed at the tip of his finger where the thorn made its mark, and he stiffened, turned around to mouth _well shit Tom_ , then collapsed in an ungainly heap at the bush's base.

 

“Harry?” Tom dropped to his knees and felt desperately for a pulse. It was there, easy to find. Harry breathed deep, his eyes fluttering beneath delicate lids. “Harry?” Tom shook him, patted his cheek. Harry would not wake.

 

The tales of his childhood so often spoke of “true love’s kiss.” He knew that he did not love Harry, but Harry was his, and it was surely close enough. Tom pressed his lips against Harry’s sleep-soft mouth, pushing forth his breath and his need for Harry to never be parted from him. Harry still did not wake.

 

Tom fell back onto his heels and glared around the garden. “Show yourself!” he demanded, searching in his bag for the precious components of a revealing spell. “What have you done?”

 

“I have granted your wish, and likely his.” The silver-haired woman appeared in all her glory before him. “While he sleeps, you cannot die.”

 

That couldn’t be right. “What was his wish?”

 

She shook her head. “I cannot reveal others’ secrets.”

 

“Can he ever be awakened?” It would be good to know these things, if immortality became too dull without him.

 

“Ah,” she said. “True love’s kiss, as you guessed. But after the seventh failed attempt or one hundred years, he will never wake again.”

 

Tom considered this. “Very well,” he decided. “I shall be on my way.” Surely Harry wouldn’t mind. But as he walked away, Tom felt a twinge in his chest. He quashed it. He did not look back at Harry’s prone form, shrouded in twisted branches.

 

And Tom failed his first attempt.

 

It wasn’t so bad, traveling alone (he assured himself). There was nothing now to hold him back: no more useless moralizing or —at times —useful caution. But when he felt he had learned enough of the magics of the world and of death, Tom returned to the rose bush on a whim. For nostalgia’s sake, he concluded. What was the harm in indulging?

 

Five years had passed since Harry entered his enchanted sleep. Tom drew him out from beneath the branches and kissed him, taking comfort in his scent and his warmth. He lay with Harry that night, a respite before he should begin his true purpose.

 

And Tom failed his second attempt.

 

Tom made himself known first to the authorities of the country of his birth. His ultimatum was harsh, his power undeniable. They could not resist him. For the moment, there was peace (a peace that simmered and snarled, but peace just the same).

 

“What are you doing, Tom?” the old professor asked, accosting Tom outside the center of government in which he spent his time.

 

“What I must,” Tom replied simply.

 

“What has become of Harry?” Dumbledore went on, his silvery brows furrowing in fear.

 

“He is as safe as he could wish to be,” Tom said. But Harry had not wished for safety. It was not for him.

 

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he left in a hurry. (And expired quietly in his sleep not long after.)

 

Tom proposed expansion of their borders. It was his government. Agreement was unanimous, after the lone dissenter died of unknown causes.

 

Tom himself led the charge against their unsuspecting neighbors. He would be more than a mere figurehead. He led them into battle, and they followed because they could do nothing else.

 

One neighboring country fell, then the next, then the next. Tom was showered with glory in blood-soaked fields. They knelt before him to declare their fealty. Tom graciously accepted their praise and tribute. It was his duty to do so.  Twenty years passed in this vain.

 

He went back to Harry on the day the last vestiges of resistance on the continent were conquered. Harry had not changed. Tom kissed him, none too gently this time. Harry would not wake, and he could do as he pleased. Harry’s body gave easily to Tom’s hands and cock and mouth, and Tom felt full.

 

And Tom failed his third attempt.

 

He stepped back from conquest for a couple decades. There was much to rebuild. When it was time to cross into the unconquered Arctic nations and to cross the sea, he would have his people ready. No mages equaled Tom in power. He had nothing to fear.

 

He went to Harry again at the height of the rebuilding, flush with his people’s fearful adoration. He was somewhat gentler, but still found the experience satisfactory. Harry was so very dear and so very sweet.

 

And Tom failed his fourth attempt.

 

Tom’s empire brimmed with magic. No one went hungry. No one was ever unwatched, thus always safe from harm. Education was easily attained for those who sought it. Tom looked over his work from the window of his office and found it good.

 

It could not always remain so.

 

Rebellion began first in the quiet of homes, embers kindled in the hearts of the least among the malcontent. They demonstrated in the streets. They were easy to ignore. (What was it they wanted? Freedom from oppression, they claimed.)

 

At times, Tom found himself wishing for someone else to take joy in what he had done. But there was no one; only the ungrateful malcontents and the worshipful devotees and the fearful masses.

 

Tom returned to Harry then, in the fiftieth year of his reign. “I find I wish you could speak to me,” he lamented, kissing him as he always did. Harry, of course, gave no reply.

 

And Tom failed his fifth attempt.

 

Within a few more decades, the malcontents became the spokespeople of the fearful masses, and the rebellion broke. Tom could plan all he wanted for a war, but it didn’t matter when his people refused en masse to fight one. Magic could only go so far to persuade.

 

There were assassination attempts. Poison in drinks. Knives thrown by faceless assailants in the middle of large crowds. Mages sent to stab him while he slept. He survived all with nary a scratch. His advisors, what advisors remained, clearly hoped such attempts would succeed, if there badly-disguised disappointment was anything to go by.

 

Tom missed Harry more than he ever had. Harry would not have turned on him.

 

Tom returned to the rose bush in secret, kissed Harry with twice his usual fervor, then collapsed beside him in exhaustion. Harry did not wake.

 

And Tom failed his sixth attempt.

 

“You have only one remaining, you know,” the silver-haired woman told him, accosting him as he made to slink away the next morning, stiff from his night’s rest upon the ground.

 

“I know it,” Tom said, harsh and clipped.

 

“Why not let him go? Your power has soured. Waiting for a century to try again elsewhere is nothing to you.”

 

Tom shook his head. “I miss him. I cannot go on like this.”

 

She nodded. “One more chance within the next ten years, else he will sleep forever.”

 

“Yes.”

 

What was the secret to true love’s kiss? In all his travels, Tom had not learned. He wondered, though, as he sat up nights, if Harry had known; if Tom had been the one to sleep, could Harry have woken him?

 

Tom expected the answer was in the affirmative. _Oh Harry_ , he thought, _I wish you were here. I wish that you, too, could have experience the world as extensively as I did._ _I wish_ —

 

But maybe that was enough, this wishing for Harry’s sake rather than his own. But if it wasn’t, then—

 

If it wasn’t, then they were both lost.

 

Tom knew what he must do, but he did not know if success was his desire. Harry would be disappointed in him; Harry would leave him. Tom couldn’t bear the thought.

 

His reign ended decisively when an effigy covered in his blood (how, oh how had they got ahold of it?) was burned in his empire’s capital. His injuries were grievous, and he kept himself hidden. They knew his weakness, anyway. The rebellion’s leader —world-weary yet charismatic—led the final coup. “Leave this place,” she said, her brown curls wild in her rage. And there was magic in her words, a charm among charms cradled in her trembling hand. He had no choice but to limp away.

 

_Your power has soured_ , the silver-haired enchantress had said not so long ago. Truly, what did this thankless existence matter?

 

Tom returned to the rose bush for a final time. “Oh, Harry, darling,” he mumbled, trailing kisses up his throat, past his ear. “Harry, please.” He cradled him close, hesitated, then covered Harry’s mouth with his own.

 

Harry awoke with a gasp. “Tom?” Tom pulled back, gazing into Harry’s verdant, darting eyes.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Harry, I didn’t know…”

 

“Do you want to know what I wished?” Harry interrupted his rambling, stretching and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, wakefulness returning with impossible—enchanted?—swiftness.

 

Tom nodded, mouth gone dry.

 

“I wished that you would come to regret immortality.”

 

“That was all? Nothing for yourself?” Tom sputtered, exasperated.

 

“That’s right.” Harry gave him a gentle, resigned smile.

 

“And did you wish to sleep?” Tom snapped. “It has been hard without you. I _love_ you.” The word was alien in his mouth, and as he spoke it, something vital within him seemed to collapse.

 

Harry shook his head. “But for how long, Tom? You may love me now, but you haven’t always. You were content to leave me here. She told me that in my dreams.”

 

Of course she had. “And did you see,” Tom hesitated. “Did you see all I did?”

 

Harry nodded again.

 

“I don’t regret the power I held. I regret the life you have not lived.” Tom reached out, and Harry embraced him. “This is love, then?” Tom whispered weakly into Harry’s shoulder, something constricting in his chest, a weakness spreading through his extremities.

 

“It must be,” Harry said, gently laying him back. Tom, trying to keep his heavy eyelids open, thought he caught a glimmer of a tear on Harry’s cheek. Harry smoothed back Tom’s hair, kissing him. Tom could taste his tears, now.

 

“It’s your turn to sleep, Tom,” Harry choked.

 

It was fitting, he knew. He had overstayed his welcome on this mortal coil. “But you will live.” His voice was fading to nothing. Everything was dimming around him, drifting away. “I love you,” Tom mouthed.

 

“I know,” he thought he heard Harry say, and the world went dark.


End file.
